


Your Bloodied Mouth (Would Look So Good On Mine)

by LordJixis



Category: Carry On - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Blood, Blood Drinking, Bloodplay, Bloodplay? Kinda?, Boys In Love, Eventual Smut, F/M, Falling In Love, In which Penelope actually helps Simon prove Baz is a vampire, Lets See How Much I can Fulfill My Own Kinks, M/M, Not timeline consistent, Nothing Good Here, POV Baz, Penelope knows all, Self-Harm, There were really easy ways to prove Baz was a vampire, Unhealthy Relationships, Vampirism is hot, and uh, bad things happen to Baz, p sure this is legit bloodplay at this point, sub-ish Baz
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-24
Updated: 2018-08-09
Packaged: 2018-08-17 02:24:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 15,423
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8126821
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LordJixis/pseuds/LordJixis
Summary: In which Penelope knows everything, and Snow is just a bit more ruthless. Baz has been fucked his whole life but this - this is something else.





	1. Prove It

The first time Baz ever smells Simon's blood, Simon understands nothing and Baz understands everything.

They'd been fighting – not an uncommon occurrence – and somewhere in the space between Simon backing Baz up against the wall and Baz pushing him down and coming in for a punch, Simon's knuckles had been scraped and his life had started leaking out the rips.  


It was innocuous to Simon. He'd been hurt worse by better people time and time again, so it didn't even cross his mind that it was the first time Baz made him bleed, and the first time Baz ran from one of their fights.  


All he knew was Baz was running away, backing down, being a _coward,_ and that wasn't Baz, That wasn't Baz at all. Baz always stood tall against him (always _taller_ , even.), always looking straight at him, always pushing back as hard as he pushed him, and him running away broke some small piece of Simon's heart. But emotions were never his forte, and he was the Chosen One, and there were much more important things in life than Baz acting weird, especially considering Baz was _always_ acting weird.  


Baz, on the other hand, was curled in some small, dark corner where he hoped no one could ever find him, no one could ever see the dirty hunger that clouded everything in his brain. It was a nice corner, a good corner, and he could just sit and stare and _not_ think about how Simon's blood smelled like honeyed sun rays, like _life_ and stardust and the most wonderful cherry scones (He ate so much they must clot in his veins, changing hemoglobin to candied fruit, dribbling out like syrup.). He would not think about how it became clear, so clear, in that moment, that he was ferociously in love with Simon Snow. He wouldn't think about how his blood was the most tantalizing thing he'd ever smelled, wouldn't think about how he'd wanted to lick it off tawny skin. He would not, at all, entertain the notion that perhaps if he did it sweet enough, gentle enough, maybe Snow would ask him to do it again.  


He'd known, before, that he'd been a tad too interested in Snow, maybe obsessed to be honest. But it had been _reasonable_ , he was the _Chosen One._ His magic made the strongest minds drunk, seduced magicians he didn't even know existed, and Baz was just a casualty of the natural disaster that was Simon Snow. He could easily dismiss his feelings as the stupid suicidal compulsions of a moth, darting around a flame in a dance that would inevitably end in its death, the flame burning ever higher. It was okay, like that. Baz was something of a masochist, a twisted depressed _maniac_ who liked the thought of the greatest mage who ever lived being the end of him.  


And it was not okay like this. Because Snow's life had just been shoved in his face, in his nose, and it was so painfully, horribly, unattainably obvious that he loved Snow with the small bits of his heart that were still good (And quite a bit of the parts that were bad). He couldn't get the smell out of his head and yet he didn't want to hurt him, not at all, not _hurt_. He wanted to lick his wounds clean and kiss him with a bloodied mouth, have him love him anyways. He wanted to patch up all his injuries after sucking sweetly, kissing them gently one last time, sending Snow off to where he'd inevitably be injured again and he'd inevitably come back to Baz for help. Which was stupid and foolish and worse than the suicidal obsession he'd had before, because there was so much more room for hurt.  


When he goes back to his room, Simon doesn't even comment on his sudden disappearance. Baz shouldn't be surprised, really, because the only way to make Simon pay any attention to you was to have food or punch him (Baz had found punching him to be the easier option). Maybe after his all-consuming revelation earlier, he'd expected _something._  


But he gets nothing and goes to bed in silence.

It's better this way, anyways.

  


* * *

  


**Baz**

  


I'm careful, the rest of the year. I don't throw Snow down on the concrete, don't scrape him against walls. I punch him and push him but he never bleeds, just gets big, nasty bruises that I wish had been made a different way.

Any marks I leave on him feel good, anyways. To mark Simon Snow. To have yourself imprinted on the Chosen One, burst blood vessels screaming _I was here_.  


But then it's summer and Snow is gone (I'm gone from Watford too, but Snow is gone from me.) I wank away the sweltering days, entertaining the vain hope that once when I cum it will just spew all of Snow's influence from my body.  


I'm in even deeper when school starts again.  


He waltzes into the room like he belongs there, all protruding bones and eye bags. He always looks better after a few months here, less like a walking corpse. There's only room for one of those, in Mummer's house.  


I don't want him to go back to wherever he goes every summer, but I don't even know where that is and he wouldn't tell me if I asked. So I stay complacent with how he bulks up every year and dread the summers where whatever drains him of the life I'm so fond of steals him from me.  


“You look like shit.” I say, because it's true and I've been fantasizing about his voice all summer.  


“And you look like a posh asshole. What's knew?” His voice is deeper, it resonates within me, and I know I'll be thinking about it long into the night. It's smoother than Snow's replies usually are, but he seems tired and he's always smoother (and more honest) when he's tired. It's strange, but Simon is the strangest thing to ever exist. I want to pick him apart, splay all the grisly bits in front of me, poke and prod them until I understand everything about him.  


I am not as careful this year.  


He punches me for calling him an “Emotionally unbalanced wreck of a person who couldn't maintain a decent relationship to save his life.” (It was true.) (It was my undoing, how we matched.)  


Maybe, possibly, I shouldn't have said that right after Wellbelove had asked for a break (The third in their relationship.) but Snow was _too_ beautifully volatile and I wanted to see him explode.  


And he did. He punched me and followed me down, and when I flipped him over and pinned him, he was snarling and growling like some kind of rabid animal. I ignored how close I was to him, ignored the fact I was the only one who could make the golden boy look like this, and reared back to introduce my fist to his face.  


He caught my hand and it slammed into the ground instead, and I was briefly glad I didn't actually mess up the perfection that was Simon Snow, but then he was trying to buck me off and I had to very carefully and calmly remind myself that this wasn't, in any way, sexual, and was actually probably the worst time to get an erection.  


I twisted his arm, slamming it on the ground, scraping it against the – against the concrete. Maybe he wouldn't bleed, I wasn't all that rough, but Snow bleeds as easily as he cries and soon the overly sugared scent was filling my senses, erasing all thoughts but **eat** and _leave._  


I left. I left Snow, the golden boy, the chosen one. I left him on the ground with bleeding knuckles and a crease of confusion on his brow. I left him and ran all the way to the catacombs, ducking and weaving through passages until I was sure no one could find me.  


And I satiated my hunger.  


Rats had never tasted so vile.  


I am careful, again, but somehow the crimson liquid boiling through him spills more often than I'd like. He's dense (Stars are the densest things in the universe.) but by the end of the year I think he might, possibly be connecting the dots.  


It doesn't matter because he leaves, and I don't say goodbye.  


  


* * *

  


When we come back, he somehow manages to look worse than the year before.

“Aleister Crowley, Snow, what happened to you over the summer?” It's out of my mouth before I can stop it, stupid words spilling out like my fangs do when I eat.  


He glares at me and tries his damn hardest to make his shrug look angry.  


Maybe its my fault (The staring could, possibly, be taken as malicious. And sometimes I think I lick my lips when I do it.), but somewhere along the way he gets it in his head that I'm plotting against him, and (This part is definitely not my fault.) the only way to stop me is to follow me. Everywhere.  


_Everywhere._  


He's always jumping away from doors when I exit them, trying to look inconspicuous as he trails me around the grounds at night. I don't think he understand he _can't_ be inconspicuous, his magic simply won't allow it. He's a beacon to all the pitiful moths, and I am the most pitiful of them all.  


He actually manages to follow me to the catacombs once, and I panic. He shouldn't have been able to get here without me noticing him, but there he was, right at the entrance, right in the starlight. And I'm in the dark, hiding like the fucked up creature I am, far enough he couldn't see me. It would've been fine, really, if I had done _anything_ but run.  


But I was down there because I needed to feed, and he smelled like cinnamon rolls and bacon and if he started to fight me, and if he started bleeding, and if I smelled it....  


I ran. I ran so far it was stupid.  


And when I came back to the room, he was sitting, staring, and he looked at me with his just-blue eyes and said, “You're a vampire.”  


I go still, too still, the kind of still that hurts and wrecks and would maim this, maim any time I had left with Simon Snow. _Yes._ “I have no idea what you're talking about. As usual.” I add a put-upon sigh, like sharing a room with Simon has been the bane of my existence since forever. It has been, but not in the way he thinks. That's okay, like I've said before, he's dense.  


“I'll prove it.” He's serious, eyes so set on me I wish the circumstances were different.  


“Have fun with that.” I curl my lip, give him a view of my perfectly normal (For now.) teeth.  


“I _will._ ” I frown at his words.  


Simon always gets what he wants.  


* * *

  


Apparently, his version of proving I'm a vampire involves following me around even _more_ doggedly. It's an inelegant solution, but I expect nothing less from the beautiful disaster that calls himself Simon. He even gets Bunce to come with him sometimes, though it's obvious she thinks he's chasing ghosts.

He's only chasing one, and ghost isn't the most accurate term, but dead is dead and it's still ironic enough to make me laugh. (Sometimes I think she knows, because she knows everything, always. I also think she doesn't care. It's almost endearing.)

He starts (Very obviously) trying to make me eat garlic saturated things.  


Garlic, contrary to popular belief, is edible to vampires (though I was scared to death, the first time I tried any after I Turned.) though it upsets my stomach, and I have no idea if it's because there's a smidgen of truth in the myth or my stomach is simply weak, like the rest of me.  


Anyways, it's futile. I refuse to eat anything in front of him (Or anyone, because my fangs won't fucking stay where they belong). I hear him talking to Bunce about it once, when he thought he was being sneaky while at least half of the cafeteria could hear him, and the rest could see him sneaking furtive glances at me.  


“He wouldn't eat it!” He exclaims, obviously trying to get Bunce to match his level of indignation.  


“Have you ever seen him eat anything?” It's a pointed question, but then again, so are all of Bunce's questions.  


“No!” He pauses for a moment, and his blue eyes (So blue I can see the color from all the way across the dining hall.) stare me down like I'll just go ahead and tell him the answer. “Maybe vampires don't need to eat?” He questions Bunce, in what is obviously meant as a whisper.  


She's staring at me right now, and it's times like this when I believe she knows _everything_. “Maybe.”  


  


* * *

  


It's a week before everyone leaves. It's a week until whatever sucks the life from Snow every summer comes to claim him, suck him dry the way I _should_ be.

We're laying in our beds, neither of us asleep. I've spent so long in this room, listening to his breathing, his heartbeat, _him,_ I always know when he finally drifts off.  


“You're still a vampire.” His voice is husky from sleep, and somehow less biting than ever before. “And I'm still going to prove it.”  


I'm tempted to show him how right he is, right here, right now. Bare my fangs and ask for a taste, take it no matter what he says. Maybe I'll turn him, steal all his life, make it so I'm the only one who can help him, teach him how to survive. Make him dependent on me. Make it so he can never leave, hang threats on his head and promises on his shoulders. “Good luck.” I say instead, and it's honest, because maybe if I spread all my secrets out in front of him, he'd eat them all up like the scones he's so enamored with.  


  



	2. BleedBleedBleedBleed

 

 

He looks worse, every single time we come back. Or maybe I just spend every summer fantasizing about him constantly, fervently, and he can't live up in his too-big clothes and sunken eyes.

“You look fucked.” It's almost a standard greeting now.

He turns to me, and I remember why I'm hopelessly in love with him, because his eyes are burning and his blood is singing and even being near him is thrilling me with life I hadn't felt since the end of last year. “And you look like an undead piece of _shit_!”

I love it. When he's yelling like his, his entire focus is on me and me alone. I want him to insult me, to make my heart hurt worse than this, to smash it to bits and grin his golden boy smile while he does it. And so, I provoke him, “Wow, you just got here and you're already yelling. You truly are a master of control.” It's laced with sarcasm, the sneer in my face audible. And it's a sore point, because one thing that Snow is decidedly not good at is control.

“I – you! You're such a – such a fucking!” He's red, redder than I could ever be, and I'm absurdly jealous. Because the ability to blush is exactly what I need when I'm roommates with the object of my affection.

“Use your words, Snow.”

He opts to use his fists instead. I tilt my head to one side, just enough that the wall by my head gets the blow, and state, “Anathema.”

He's over me, gloriously feral, magic rushing around us like some kind of sick smoke. I'm lightheaded, it's all fuzzy, his face is very close and his eyes are blue, the kind of blue that is pure and bright and _blue_.

And he's speaking, and it's a growl that may or may not give me the beginning's of arousal. “I will _ruin_ you.” And he's storming out, all dramatization and flair, even when he's not trying.

It's because his magic got me drunk, or high, or maybe some combination or something new altogether, but I whisper, “You already have,” into the space he once occupied and pretend he's still there.

 

* * *

 

Snow is once again loudly talking to Bunce about my supposed vampirism and the new convoluted plan he has to prove it. It's hard to listen, because there's a smudge of chocolate on one of his cheeks, and all I want to do is lick it off, but I believe I heard the words “Halloween decorations” and “Banana peels”, which should probably be concerning.

Bunce sighs, loudly. “Simon.” She's annoyed, her voice says it all. He shuts right up. “There are easier ways.”

And that, that is _extremely_ concerning. Because as far as I know, Bunce has never helped him before, which is probably the majority of the reason he's failed to actually prove I'm a vampire. She catches my eye from across the room, and it feels like an apology, which is not comforting in the slightest. She needn't bother, anyways. It's not like I thought she'd protect me over him.

And then she's leading him away, out of my hearing range, and it's about then I realize I am well and truly fucked.

 

* * *

 

I jump at shadows for the rest of the week, and the week after that. I carefully try to avoid Snow, though he doesn't decide to give me that luxury, tailing me everywhere as though my violin lessons will somehow be the clue he needs to prove what he already knows.

If this is Bunce's plan, I can honestly say I'm disappointed.

He tails me so thoroughly, that on Friday when I find myself alone in the afternoon, I'm grateful instead of suspicious like I should be. I use this time to try to calm down my emotions regarding the noisy idiot who'd somehow stolen my heart, and get absolutely nowhere. That's okay, it's nice to be able to turn around without being struck with the urge to _bite_ , _kiss_ , or _kill_.

I wander around the grounds, let the sun shine on me, contemplate how much warmer Snow is. Heh, that's a stupid sentence. I think on how _warm_ it will be when he finally ends me, think about my plan (I've always known, when we are both lunging at each other, killing blows ready, I will kiss him instead. I will kiss him as he stabs me, as he goes off around me me, as I die under his hands, because I'm inordinately selfish and refuse to die without ever having tasted his lips on mine. I will kiss him and leave him with almost an entire lifetime of questions, and it will be my very last win against Simon Snow. Maybe he'll regret killing me, maybe it will make him glad he did it. I'm unsure which option is more gratifying.) (I meant it when I said I was twisted.).

It's the saddest thing, that even when I can finally breathe air untainted with his stupidly delicious scent, all I can think about is him.

 

I'm such a fucking tragedy.

 

It's a slow wander back to the room, our shared room, because I don't want to see his face and I don't want to breathe his air.

When I get back, Snow is nowhere to be seen. It's a good thing, but I'm disappointed, and it only makes me hate myself more.

I throw my backpack down by the desk a bit harder than is really necessary, and when I turn back to the door Snow is blocking it, looking every bit like the protagonist he is. Head down, blue eyes trained on me, full lips set in a determined line. Whatever he's doing, he's serious about it.

 

It makes my heart shudder. It makes my hands quake.

 

It makes me arch an eyebrow.

 

The corners of his mouth tip down in response. “You're a vampire.” He starts. I school my face into the mask of indifference I had perfected over the years – pretending you don't care is the first step to not caring – and wait to see if he has anything new to add to this song and dance. He shifts his hand, grabs something from behind him. I notice he has a phone propped up in his shirt pocket, camera peeking out like some kind of shy schoolgirl. It's odd, and suspicious - he doesn't _own_ a phone.

But then his hand is coming out from behind him, and the glinting metal laying within his palm is so much more interesting than technology could ever be. It's a long knife, a shiny knife, and I have the strangest feeling it's a sharp one too. The eyebrow that had floated down my face to complete my apathetic expression rose up faster than a rocket ship, scrunching up my forehead into lines I know are unattractive at best.

“Anathema.” I deadpan, horrendously unimpressed that for his final plot to get rid of me, Snow would be using an ordinary knife in a room that was going to kick him from the life he loved.

“No.” He rasps, shaking his head. “You're a vampire.” He reiterates, and I'm sure there's a point here somewhere but it's going right over my head. “And I'm going to prove it.”

A few things click in my skull, mostly _BunceBunceBunce_ because suddenly this all reeks of her and I think I've lost before I ever knew I was playing.

Snow is stalking towards me, measured steps that have me consciously standing still, tall, giving no ground.

And then the shiny metal is pressing against his palm, harder, _harderharder_ _ **harder**_

It's all Snow.

 

Always.

But right now – right now it's not just that everything is Snow.

 

* * *

 

**Simon**

 

His eyes widen, the most imperceptible bit. It's enough. I know his expressions like the back of my hand now, but I believe that's to be expected, after years of living with someone who's constantly plotting to murder me. Any info I have on his emotions is invaluable; it was necessary to study him for any sign of murderous intent.

So I know that when he arches his eyebrow and frowns, he's thinking up some scathing remark, and when the side of his mouth quirks just slightly and he turns away, he's secretly amused at whatever I've done.

And when his eyelids are dragged backwards like storm clouds from a winter sky, when the everlasting hurricane swirling in his irises is fully on display – it means he's scared.

It means he's _terrified._

I've always believed in Penny, but right now is the first time I realize her plan could actually work. This could, actually, be it. The day I finally get Baz expelled.

The sinking feeling in my stomach is the dread I'll find some way to mess it up. Of course. It's what I'm good at, it was reasonable I'd be scared of fucking up the one plan that's ever ruffled Baz, even the slightest bit.

The knife slices into my palm, hard, unforgiving. It's deeper than Penny wanted it to be. “A small paper cut is all you should need.” She was right. Probably.

But it's the heat of the moment and I'm so stuck on Baz's eyes and the blade makes a sick _squelchh_ when I finally drag it out of my palm.

His mouth is hanging open, something it never does (He's always so composed. I _need_ to crack it.) but I can't see his fangs. I step closer, and he jerks his head to the side, violent enough his hair flies around him in black whips.

“No.” He sounds choked. I take another step. “Don't.” It's hoarse, so hoarse, so different from his normal posh lilt. He's shaking. He looks like he's going to start crying.

And then I'm right in front of him, puddles of blood trailing behind me like breadcrumbs. I should follow them. I should leave, go back to before this ever happened. Before I made Baz crumble so devastatingly in front of me.

I shove my hand in front of his face. It lacks grace, like everything I do. The opposite of him.

 

His fangs pop.

 

He's crying.

 

I don't think there will be a way back from this.

 

I twist, making sure the phone tucked so subtly in my shirt pocket has a good view of the incriminating objects curling around his lips. I let myself have a second to admire them myself. Morbid curiosity is a bitch. They're white, and they make his gray lips look almost pink. Look almost soft.

“Please.” He whimpers out, the slightest lisp marring his words.

Baz is a vampire. I knew, but I didn't _know_.

It feels emptier than I would really like it to.

“Go!” He cries out, thrashing, sobbing.

 

I do.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you'd review i would be pleased.  
> I respond to each and every one


	3. It's not really closure, but it'll do

_**Baz** _

 

Snow's not far enough away. Snow isn't even a reasonable distance away, though I'll admit, that would be halfway around the world. Or dead.

It's stupid I don't want either of those fucking things.

He's just in the bathroom, door closed, water running. Who knows what he's doing, but whatever it is, he's too close to me.

I should kiss him.

I should kill him.

 

I should _leave_.

 

My mind latches onto the last one, thankfully. Because I do need to. Leave, that is. Probably, because now – now he has his proof, and his proof was all he'd ever needed. And I don't want to die from Snow siccing the Mage on me, I don't want to die from anything but him. His magic, his sword, his _something._

So I have to leave. I need to. But his blood – His blood is _everywhere;_ on my shirt, drying on the floor. Coagulating. Being wasted.

I can't lick it up like some kind of animal (Can I?). I _can't_. And I won't, I just can't think, not with everything coated in the sugared sweetness of his blood. Not with my brain playing wicked tricks on me, painting pictures of it still leaking from him; warm, red, _delicious_.

I rip my shirt off in a moment of desperation, it barely helps at all. It sticks tacky to my torso, pulling off with a sick noise that makes me famished. I can't think.

I can't breathe.

 

I have to _**leave**_ _._

 

But it's so hard, so hard to not just fall to my knees, lap at the floor and continue even when Snow returns, even when he can see how much of a monster I really am.

I don't do that. Instead, I stumble from the bed. Locate my wand. Scour my brain for a cleaning spell; surprisingly, the perfect one comes easily, “ _ **Out, damned spot!**_ ”

The blood lifts from various surfaces, vaporizes in the air. It's sickening and terrible and _delectable_ , heavy in my throat, for just a second. And then it's gone and I can think.

And I can leave.

I throw a packing spell wildly, trying to encompass my entire side of the room. Most of it doesn't matter, but whatever flies into my suitcase in the minutes it takes for me to get a shirt and shoes on is what I'll have for the mad dash back to my house, so it might as well be something.

 

Snow walks out as I'm shoving my foot into a sturdy boot. It's fucking freezing outside, and I'm not looking forward to this, so any amount of warmth I can get is worthwhile. He stares for a second, then stutters out a very eloquent, “Wha-What are you doing?”

“What does it look like I'm doing?” My fangs haven't gone away, adding a lisp I hate on the best of days to my words. I suppose it doesn't matter much, now. I suppose nothing much of anything matters much now, but running as far and fast as possible.

“You, um.” I stare blankly at him, offering no help. Why should I, when he'd just taken away everything from me? “You don't have to leave?”

I bark a laugh at him, and he flinches away. “Well, I'm not looking to die.” I refrain from spitting the 'by anyone but you.' that hovers in my mouth.

“The Mage wouldn't kill you!” He defends.

I straighten, shiver as cold air assaults my bare torso. Generally I'm not okay with showing any skin to Snow, but everything is different now, and it doesn't matter what he thinks about the ribs that show through and the dark happy trail I never really knew what to do with because I'll be gone. I stalk towards him, measured steps that have him backed into the wall. I stop and realize late that I'm too close, almost pressed against him, almost near enough to hear the liquid sloshing through his veins. “If you really believe that...” I start strong, venom in my words; but this is Snow. He'll always break me, even when he's not trying. So when I try to spit angry insults, they come out sweet, “Your blind optimism is stronger than I thought.”

He's staring up at me, and he's so close. His blue eyes are so wide and his lips are so tempting, slightly parted (mouth breather.), far too close. I could kiss him. I'm leaving, and it wouldn't even matter.

 

I should kiss him.

 

It really, really wouldn't matter if I dipped my lips to his. Just a simple press, the culmination of years of yearning. There's a decent chance I'll never see him again, and if I do it's going to be on the opposite side of a battlefield. So kissing him won't matter, it won't change anything, nothing will break that hasn't already been shattered.

 

I walk away.

 

I think it would be easier to kiss Snow in the heat of battle (I am such a coward.). I tug on my next boot, gently. It feels like acceptance. There's not much room between that and giving up. There's not much left of me to care which side I'm really on.

“Hey.” And suddenly he's in front of me again, shining like the sun in repose. I want to spit on him. Maybe it could put him out. “Hey, look, the Mage isn't going to kill you.”

“Snow...” I try for irritated and get exhausted, which is not unlike the rest of my life.

“No, really.” He plops himself down on the floor, presents the phone he's too impoverished to own to me. The video is up, my irked face in full view. “Delete it.”

“Wha-What?” I steal Snow's thing and stutter at him, immediately flushing with all the blood I have in me. It seems every last bit of my composure is going to be broken tonight.

“Delete it.”

“You're kidding. You can't do that.” It's stupid, so stupid. I shouldn't be arguing with him. I should snatch it out of his hands, rip it in half. Stomp on the broken pieces.

“Why not?” He questions, tilting his head like it's a real question that deserves a real answer. I acquiesce, as usual. He could get me to do anything.

I hope he never figures that out.

“Because we're enemies. Because this could ruin me. Because you'll _win_.”

He looks taken aback, blue eyes so wide. As wide as they'd be if I kissed him? “I never wanted to ruin you.”

_Liar._ “The part where you have seems to contradict that.” He won't understand how deeply he's destroyed me, how little there is left.

“I'm trying to fix that you dick, now delete the fucking thing.”

 

I knew he wouldn't understand.

I hit the trash icon.

 

“Great.” He has shiny teeth, bright and perfect and oh-so-entirely like him. He takes the phone back and clicks through the screen, then presents the video back to me.

“Uh?” I, the great Baz Pitch, have been flummoxed by technology. I saw the little trash can suck it up but it's still there, which makes absolutely no sense.

“I know, it's strange. When you delete it, it goes into the deleted folder, and from there you can _actually_ delete it.”

“For what possible reason?”

“I don't even know, and nether did Penny, surprisingly.”

“Penny?” I suppose it made sense that he'd ask Penny, but I feel like there's something here I'm just not connecting the dots on.

“Yeah, this is her phone actually.”

“Well, I knew it wasn't yours.” He blinks wide eyes at me, so blue, so big. Blinks again. My cheeks would be rosy if I had more blood in my body, and the stupid urge to defend myself bubbles up. “I've only been your roommate for what, seven years? I think I'd know if you had a phone.”

“Oh... Yeah, okay. Um, are you going to delete it?” He seems perturbed but, once again, the point flies entirely above his head.

I tap the trash icon. It falls away, leaving some other video of a cauldron. “Is it... really gone?” Technology seems untrustworthy at best, and I can't be sure he's telling the truth.

But when he says, “Yeah, it is.” I believe him unquestionably.

He looks awkwardly at me. His mouth hangs open, his blue eyes are wide, and he just sits there. It occurs after a lust-filled second that maybe I was supposed to say something, but the moment passes easily.

A loud click echos between us, my suitcase shutting as the packing spell ends. It's bulging, looking like it's about to burst, and I vaguely realize I had put way too much magic into it.

He blinks at me, looks at my suitcase, and promptly turns around to leave.

“Thanks.” It's a whisper I didn't realize would be coming out of my mouth, but come it does. I would think he didn't even hear if he hadn't stopped for just a second.

He doesn't respond.

And then he's gone.

 

_**Baz** _

 

It's different.

Of course it is.

It's the same in all the ways it really should matter; in the week and day since he found his proof, we've fought twice and almost fought six times. It's around our normal ratio. In fact, it's exactly what our normal ratio would be, if we had one. But we don't, so it feels brittle and fake, a thin veneer to hide the fact everything is different.

When we did fight it didn't feel real, and it didn't feel right, and it felt sort of like he was treating me like glass, which is exactly what I don't want out of Snow. I may be fragile, but if I am, then I want to be broken. I want to be shattered again and again so I can pick up the pieces and glue them back with rubber cement, layer them on top of each other until I'm not weak, until I'm unbreakable.

And then maybe I want to let him in and have him break me more.

None of that is going to happen.

I say nothing to him, because this is not peace, but it is familiar, and it was hard-won either way. It could be so much worse, could be so much harder, so I stay silent and accept what this world has given me. It's not hard, particularly. It's what I've been taught my whole life.

I drain rats dry, lick the blood off my lips and pretend there's poetry to it. There isn't, not really, but pretending is what I do and I do it well. So I pretend the blood tastes like butter and sugar, pretend it is freely offered, pretend I'm not crouched in a dark corner of the tomb for great wizards.

And when I go back to my bed, it's with a stomach full of blood and a heart full of longing. This is not a good combination. But it's late and cold and Snow is most definitely asleep.

 

Except he's not, and when I open our door, I'm met with: “You eat rats.”

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well hello there everyone! My laptop, along with ~3,000 words of this story died a couple months ago, and then the world ended. Or at least it felt like it for me. I hope you'll enjoy this chapter and forgive me for the wait, I am a real people with a real life - a real hectic life, at that. As always, I'd love to hear from you, and (eventually) I'll reply to every comment! (Also Simon said he wanted to ruin Baz earlier n this story, that lil liar[He didn't mean it tho so I guess he didn't lie])


	4. Did You Really Think Talking Would Help?

I stutter-stop, my feet jerking to keep me as far away from Snow as possible – without looking like I was running away. Pitches don't run, so I stubbornly stick to the ground, even as all my animal instincts scream _LEAVE_. I am strong, just like a Pitch should be. I'm proud and stoic, regal and untouchable. 

I'd stopped just inside the doorway, and I'm torn between closing the door so no one else can be a part of what is obviously going to be an awful conversation, and leaving it open as an escape route. Or, you know, escaping right then. But again, Pitches don't run, so I stand my ground and lift my chin and hope it looks more convincing than it feels.

Snow just looks at me, and it occurs that possibly he expects an answer. Too bad for him. Nothing comes to my normally quick brain, my acid tongue sits in my mouth, useless, worthless, unmoving.

“Do you have to?” He asks after a second, and his voice is stupid soft. It's worse than yelling, that soft lilt, because it almost sounds like caring and I _can't_ let myself hear that.

I still don't know how to answer. Do I have to eat rats? Drink blood? Be a monster?

Yes.

It's the only answer, no matter what question he's truly asking. I cough it out.

“Does it have to be rat blood?” This question is quick, out of his mouth too easily. He's been waiting to ask it.

It feels like a trap. 

I'm missing something here. It's not a feeling I enjoy, but i can't just sit here and stare at him till I figure it out. So I answer. 

“No.”

It's the truth.

He opens his mouth. I wait.

He closes it.

Seconds later: “Goodnight Baz.” It's a dismissal.

I stare at him for long moments and he ignores my gaze with all the ferocity he's known for. Neither of us break. 

Eventually, I sigh and crawl into bed. His breathing is soft, but it's all I can focus on. 

I don't sleep.

  
  


~~~

_**Simon** _

  
  


Baz skitters around me like a particularly gloomy mouse; wary glances and grimaces thrown in my direction every time we see each other. I knew, when I asked him that there would be no going back. And it looks like there isn't.

But, maybe, there's a way we could move forward.

“You're stupid. That's stupid.” Penny's hair is a shocking teal, floating around her in a bright, cotton-candyesque cloud, and it follows a second behind as she shakes her head. “Why?”

My mouth opens, but the words die before I even know what they were. Penny watches me close my mouth again, waits a second to see if I'll struggle through some explanation. I don't particularly have one though, it just... seems right.

She knows I wouldn't do something if it didn't feel right, so this is a useless explanation to give her. I stay silent.

“I don't know why I bothered asking.” She sighs, and her teal cloud flops forward to cover her face.

“Do you think I should just present the idea beforehand, or, like, just come in already bleeding and be all 'oh my god, Baz, can you help me with this' or maybe - “

“I think you should chuck yourself into the moat and rethink your life.” She's snarky, but there's an underlying affection I'm used to hearing from her. She sighs, and thunks her head down on the table. “He's not gonna respond well if you try to talk about it – seriously, have you guys ever resolved anything through talking?”

“I don't think we've actually ever solved anything?”

The gaze I get is un-amused, at best. “Okay, then. Maybe talk, cause it's obvious whatever you're doing isn't working.”

She's right, but she knows she is, because that's what Penny _does_. So I don't say anything, just nod and think and hope.

_**Baz** _

When Simon bursts in smelling like blood and fear, I'm in front of him before either of us seem to realize. It's unfortunate. And telling. I wish I could rewind, but now I'm looming over him and there's no where to go but forward.

His eyes look a little scared – wide and too-bright, blinding like headlights on the most ridiculous car – but underneath that is a hard resolve that scares me.

And makes me feel alive. (I'm so dead, nothing should be able to make me feel alive. But he does, somehow. Snow could do anything.)

He stares too long, maybe forgetting his lines or stuttering through them in his head, but I wasn't given a script and whatever patience I once had was worn down from the sickly sweet smell of his blood.

“Why do you reek?” It was meant to be harsh, angry. But the growl that comes out is something more, something awful. I don't want to dwell on it, but Snow's eyes somehow get even wider and I start to think this is something I'll never be able to forget.

I don't even know if that's a good thing.

“Accident.” It sounds like he hasn't used his voice in ages. It sounds like he'd use it only for me.

I shake my head harshly, dispelling whatever stupid thoughts I had been thinking. “How could you -” and then he shifts a little, just the tiniest bit. Just enough so that I can see his arm, which is redredred, dripping-goopy with the most awful, enchanting liquid. My sentence chokes itself off, and his eyes are on mine and so big and _something,_ something I can't even place, something that might've not even existed before him.

He shifts again, hiding his arm behind the huge lump of a sweater he's wearing, and I remember that I should probably leave because self-control is important in _all_ situations and if I stick around I certainly will not be practicing it. Something must've shown on my face though, because he grabs me and holds tight, like he thinks he'd need to do anything more than touch me to make me stay.

I realize my fangs are popped because he can't stop staring at them. I lick them unconsciously.

 

He doesn't stop looking.

 

“W-why?” I stutter, shaking the arm he's holding slightly. Really, the fact I'm stuttering is probably the least embarrassing part of this situation.

“Because I...” He has a nice tongue, which is not a thought I ever wanted to think. But it's pretty and pink when it darts out of his mouth, running over his teeth in a mimicry of what I'd just done. “I don't want you to eat rats.”

Thrown for a loop would be an understatement.

There's long, agonizing minutes caught in his gaze. It's one of those moments, the ones that hang suspended, like ornaments on the Christmas tree or a body from a noose.

 

Eventually, the rope will snap.

 

“WHAT?!”

 

_**Simon** _

 

I didn't really know what his reaction would be, when he pieced it together. I saw the gears turning in his eyes, vast and deep like the sky during a thunderstorm – drawing me in, keeping me there. I was well and truly lost when he yells, stumbling away from me. He falls down of his own accord – not something I'd ever, ever seen Baz do – and gapes at me. He looked devastated and scared and maybe just possibly: the tiniest bit hopeful?

Maybe that was me. Maybe I'm hopeful. (I really shouldn't be. What kind of messed up mimicry of a good deed is this?)

This had been something of an impulse, something of a plan – all my best moments were conceived through that combination – and at this point, the point where he finds out what it's all about, was where the plan falls apart.

Because all that mattered here was his reaction. And honestly, I had no hope of guessing that.

And this one, well. It wasn't the worst I'd dreamed up. There had been long nights fidgeting across from him in a moonlit room; asleep enough my imagination was on fire, awake enough to obsess.

So it wasn't the worst, but it wasn't one I knew how to deal with.

“Baz –“ He jerks away from his name, like the sound could physically hurt him. Maybe it did. Maybe I'm an awful person.

I know I'm a stubborn person though, so I barrel on. “Baz, I just – fuck – we've never been good at talking, have we?” I smile at him, realizing a little belatedly I've sat on the floor. He doesn't quite smile back, but his expression's smoothed into something resembling muted disbelief. “I guess that proves it.” I say conversationally to his silence. He almost smirks, at that. It gives me courage. “Well, okay. I, uh, think it could be... better. For you. If you just like, I dunno, drank a little of my blood? Like, enough to survive. And maybe d-didn't Turn me or kill me? It's like a win-win situation. Y-You see, you don't have to go into the creepy dungeons and kill rats, I don't have to f-follow you there to make sure you're not plotting to kill me, everyone sleeps better.” I give him the weakest little shrug I think I've ever done.

The silence stretches. His face does interesting things during it, things so interesting I can't seem to look away, but finally his pale pink lips say: “You're conveniently glossing over the part where I _drink_ your fucking _blood_ , Snow.”

“No, I'm pretty sure I mentioned that.” His face twists up, so I continue, “I mean, it's not that big of a deal. Just, like, friends helping friends?

 

“We were never friends.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's short, but so is life. Also I haven't read this book in a while and have gotten progressively worse at writing, but here ya go. Have a lovely night my friends.


	5. Just a Taste?

**_Simon_ **

 

He rasps the words, the kind of voice that _should_ invoke terror and respect. In this situation though, he just sounds sort of brittle. It reminds me exactly why this was a bad idea – a monumentally bad one, even by my standards – but I'm halfway through it now and there's no going back. I don't even think I could, if I was given the chance.

I've always been told I'm courageous, but right now I have to scramble for even enough to breathe. When I do get a lungful, it comes back out as a chuckle. This does something to Baz's face, something hard and twisting, but underneath it I think he's scared. I know I'm scared. Maybe I'm just pretending he is to make myself feel better.

“We weren't.” My voice is steady, miracle of miracles. His face untwists a little, hesitance seeping into the cracks. “But I think we could be.”

His porcelain skin twists, a sneer pulling it into something ugly and disfigured. “Do you ever stop with the guileless hero bullshit?” He stands, looming over me with his teeth bared and fists clenched.

“Ah, I think that's just my, erm.” I pause longer than I wanted to. Baz keeps switching from furious to incredulous, and I don't want to tip him over into a storm of anger. “...Personality.”

“Your personality is: hero?” Safely on the side of incredulous, then.

“Uh, can that happen?”

He almost looks like he's finding the humor in the situation, pointy eyebrows traveling up his forehead till it was all wrinkles. I want to smooth them out, to make him see this will all be okay, anything and everything that happens will be fine. Maybe that's the hero in me talking.

 

_**Baz** _

 

I gape like a fish – a particularly unattractive one, I'm sure. But Snow is saying his personality is 'hero' and I sort of just feel like his pet project. Like another world that needs to be saved.

But I don't need his salvation, or his pity, or anything like it. I don't need anything from anyone.

I take a breath, ready to tell him as much – with all the snark I can possible breathe into it, of course. The only problem happens when that breath has all the sticky soppy _good_ of his blood on it, the blood he'd just offered me. The blood I could have, if I only shoved away my pride and said yes. I don't know if I'd ever shoved away my pride and said yes. I don't know if I could.

Unless, of course, I apply logic (Twisted logic, but logic all the same.).

It would probably be a _tactically_ better decision anyway. He's putting so much trust in me – it could easily be misplaced. I could easily Turn him. Everything could come so stupidly nicely for me, wrapped up with a little bow, if I just took advantage of this offer, took advantage of the hero bullshit he seemed so eager to live. I could come out on top and teach him a lesson at the same time; he'd never trust this beautifully again, never be this gullible.

It's logic. Cold and hard. Father would be proud.

I should do it. I could do it.

But all I _want_ to do is sip his blood.

I want to drink it up and drown him in bandages – get him some tea and tell him to _be more careful, please._

It's sickeningly domestic. It churns in my stomach, nausea and pain and _wantwantwant._

I have never desired anything more.

“Fine.” I don't think either of us expected my voice, shaky but strong. The sun has started to go down, gracing our room with slants of glowing light. It makes him look warm, inviting. “Fine, you want to let me drink your blood? Fine. I want to. You have _no idea_ how much I want to drink your blood; you have _**no idea**_ what abad – no scratch that, absolutely terrible – idea it is. But you're pushing for it anyway. Fine. You get your way, like always, and you won't know how wrong you were to want it till it's too late. Like always.”

His eyes are too wide – scared, maybe. Regretful. I don't care. I don't care at all if he has any regrets, he'd offered this to me and I'm going to take it – “Okay.” I look up – when had I looked down? And he's smiling, golden in the dying light. It looks like he has a halo. He might be an angel. “Okay – I'm, uh. I'm very happy to hear that.” It's dripping with sickening honesty. There's nothing I wanted to hear less. “Where should I – erm – where would you –“

I cut off what is obviously going to be an awful mash of words, standing and walking stiffly to my bed. “Well? Are you coming?”

He practically scampers over.

I never thought I'd see Snow, of all people, literally scamper towards me.

Honestly, upon consideration, this is probably a dream.

He shoves his arm into my space – his sleeve is already rolled up, revealing three thin lines on his skin. They ooze thick liquid down his arm, across his hands, till it collects on his fingers and finally, finally drips off. I start there, tongue flicking out to taste the droplets that have gathered but not yet fallen.

It's better than I thought it would be. (I thought it would be really, really good.)

I pop the rest of his finger in my mouth and suck, then repeat with the next finger. I don't even have any urge to bite, just gently lick the delicious liquid from him. It's not till the third finger that I realize – this is lewd, and suggestive, and certainly not something I should be doing with my sworn enemy. I look up quickly. Quick enough to see Snow leaned against the wall, eyes closed and face flushed, looking for all the world like he's enjoying this – which, well. The dream theory seems to be holding more and more water. I'm almost through convincing myself that my subconscious has graced me with a pleasant dream for once, and then he lifts his head just a bit and sends me a dreamy smile – which means I need no more convincing. But if it's a dream I'm going to take advantage of it in anyway I can, because its quite the brilliant dream.

I slurp another finger into my mouth, relish the sugared sweetness that coats it, then swirl my tongue around it. Snow shifts by me and I move to the next one, repeating the process, but this time sucking just a bit on the tip of his finger. He makes a sound that's barely there. I want to hear him make that sound forever.

It's the last finger though. He looks sleepy, and sated, but I drag my tongue up his arm because I'm certainly not. His blood pools in my mouth, wet and sticky. I love it. I love this. I can't believe I was ever going to refuse.

Eventually I reach the cuts. They slide under my lips, ragged and rough. I resist the urge to suck on them, just content to just lick up whatever they'll give me. Eventually, I whisper, “ ** _Time heals all wounds_.** ” because the urge to suck up moremoremore becomes too much. They close under my lips, not so much as a scar to show they were there.

I stay with my lips pressed against Snow's arm longer than I should've. He's turned sleepy blue eyes to me by the time I get up.

I don't know how to move forward from this. He doesn't look like he knows either – but he does look sleepy and soft, not at all like the indignant anger I had assumed would come.

“Not that bad?” His voice catches me off guard. I don't understand how he could think 'not that bad' was an apt descriptor. Fantastic would be much better. Glorious, maybe. Realistic, for a dream. “Ah...” He's looking at me weird, and I realize I never answered out loud. “Suppose it was, then?”

“No!” He starts, all traces of the sleepiness leaving him. I'm sad to see it go. “Er, that is... That was good. Thank you.” I can feel the poshness slipping into my tone like it did when I was feeling uncomfortable. So, always.

“Erm, no problem.” And now Snow's looking uncomfortable, because he hates when I talk like a posh git. Which is good, normally. Part of why I do it.

But not now.

“I'll just, uh... Be going, then.” Snow looks like he might say something to that – but he has a nasty habit of letting his mouth hang open anyways so I'm not trusting it. I stride out. And then maybe break into a run. No one saw, so it doesn't matter anyway.

(And if the cold sinking into my bones does nothing for the theory that this was a dream – well. It was really too much to hope for anything but nightmares. [but apparently, not to much to hope for Snow.])

* * *

 

I manage to not even see him for a day, which is honestly amazing. Not that I really don't want to see him – I just want to see him too much. Which, well.

I don't know how he'd react to my enthusiasm – especially regarding this. (On a semi-related note, I don't know how to show enthusiasm to him. So there's that.)

I'm feeling really good about my plan – not least because it's actually worked so far, and avoiding Snow _never_ works – when it all goes to shit.

As in, I can't avoid our room for another whole night. So I figured I'd just sneak in while he's at dinner, shower and get some books, and then head out for the night (The catacombs are uncomfortable. Talking to Simon is more so).

He's there, of course.

Because of course he'd know my plan. Or Bunce would know my plan.

The point is, he's fixed me with ferocious blue eyes and, “You've been avoiding me.” Was not what I wanted to hear.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes i think about how I might've met some of you in real life and you'd never know I was this messed up - improbable, but funny. 
> 
> I hope you're all lovely and find enjoyment in this. Comments convince me to write faster - even if it's just a lil <3


	6. How To (not) Handle Your Problems

The only thing that comes to mind is 'er', and I reserve that level of eloquence for Snow. So I stay quiet and still, and ponder the logistics of a spell to make me invisible.

Silence pisses him off. I already know this – and even if I didn't, I could tell by the steadily rising magic in the room. It's choking and invigorating in equal measure. I don't even know if he knows he's doing it, still staring at me with eyes I could drown in.

“Look – I don't...” He shakes his head violently, but continues. “If you think that – that whatever happened was a mistake, we don't have to talk about it. I won't even think about it. I – I'm good at that.”

I couldn't promise the same thing, because it had been pretty much all I thought about. I couldn't – I didn't want to – say it was a mistake, either. Because I'd enjoyed it.

(Probably why it was a mistake. I don't get what I want.)

“Merlin! Why won't you _say_ anything?” He's standing closer now; fuming and choking me with his fire; blinding me with his light. I know I'm moving towards him, know it's a terrible idea, but I can't stop. A moth to a flame. Helpless. Hopeless. A tragedy.

I reach out and grab his jumper, as if to prove my point. The magic filling the room disappears immediately; I'm left clear headed and staring at my hand, which won't seem to just _detach_ itself. I spend longer than I should willing it back to my side, but it stays firmly ensconced in the fabric of his jacket. Alright, looks like that wouldn't work, so plan B.

Talking.

Which I'm _good_ at.

“I, uh, wouldn't – wasn't, erm.” Oh god. Scratch that last statement, I'm actually worse at talking than Snow. I let out a little cough to cover. “I enjoyed it.” There. Simple words. Just the truth, not fancy shit – and it even seemed to work. Snow's face softens, the angry look he'd been staring through me changing to a soft wonder.

“Oh.” He fidgets. I'm finally able to let go of his stupid jumper. I try not to glare at my traitorous hand, but I don't know how well it works. He's looking at me like I'm a few cards short of a deck, which pretty much answers that.

He's also looking at me like he enjoys it – which. Well. “I enjoyed it too.”

It zings through my body like electricity.  _He could maybe possibly enjoy my insanity_. He's an anomaly himself, and maybe – just the stupidest, slightest hope of maybe – he could grow to like me. To like all of me.

It's wonderful.

“Sorry, this was stupid, I shouldn't have –“

And then it is certainly not wonderful, because he's talking and I've just been staring at him as vacantly as families at the television.

“Wait!” I say it before I have words for after, so I turn on autopilot and hope whatever falls out is reclaimable. “Well, we both liked it, so it follows that we should do it again.” Merlin, of course my brain would spit out some stupid posh, pushy logic.

I chance a glance at his reaction, and wow. Snow's wide eyes are surrounded by a lovely flush when he looks at me – which is entirely unexpected and almost as invited. I take a moment to applaud myself. Maybe I should say whatever comes first more.

All other thought gets blocked out when Snow has the audacity to change his face to excited, and the whole stupid mess of him actually _liking_ it falls back on my head. Wasn't that – wasn't I just having fantasies about that? Is this really a dream after all? A curse?

 

He's still too close, but he moves even closer, breath falling from his lips onto my collarbone (Stupid mouth breather.[It really should not be _that_ attractive])

He's looking up at me through long eyelashes, and suddenly, I know we're going to kiss. It just seems inevitable: the sun rising in the morning, the eventual death of all life, the soft press of our lips together.

I take a deep breath, steel my nerves –

“D'ya want me to get you some food?” I'm not sure what face I give Snow, but it's enough to prompt: “What? It's dinner, and I'm sure they'll let me bring some food back.” Apparently, I was the only one to feel an inexorable pull to his lips. I like to think myself smart, but I can be so _devastatingly_ stupid.

“You don't have to get me food. I'm more than capable.” Maybe I should keep the biting scorn out of my voice, but I've never been as good as my father at hiding my hurt. (Or much else, for that matter.)

“But... You don't eat around people because you're a vampire, right?” I recoil, just a little. “Hey, you're fine... er, sorry? I mean, it's not like it's a secret anymore – I mean to me! Just me. And, er. Penny.”

I twitch. His gaze is worried – but honestly, of course Bunce knows. She's the one that helped him _find out._ I don't say that though; I don't want to give him the satisfaction. We stand in stony silence.

“Merlin, why does this have to be so fucking difficult?” It's close to a growl. He levels me with something that's not quite a glare – it's too warm, like the rest of him. “Look, I am going and getting you food so you don't look so starved to shit all the time. I will be back in twenty minutes or so, and then we're going to eat, and _then_ we're going to talk.”

“What do we have to talk about?” I snarl it without meaning to.

“Do you just... Is this on purpose or what? Are you just naturally an asshole? Is it uncontrollable? incurable? Because – you know, it doesn't matter. I'll be back.”

He's out the door before I can answer any of his questions, for better or worse.

 

* * *

 

**Simon**

 

I fume for the walk to the dining commons. I've been trying to reign in my temper, but there's something about that specific bastard's posh lilt that always goads me into seeing red. I contemplate not getting him food – it's obvious the bastard doesn't deserve it, after his little 'what could we possibly have to talk about? Ho ho ho.' Like he didn't fucking know – like it wasn't the reason he was avoiding me all day. Like we hadn't _already_ been talking about it.

The one time I want to use my words and he's being a prick about it.

I'm even helping him, the lil shit, he's just so –

“Thinking about Baz?” Penny's voice always has this soothing quality to it. It's rougher than most girl's voices: deep, like a well. Sometimes I think it's magic. Now's one of those times; the lilt easing most of the tension from my shoulders like a glacier melting.

“How'd you know?”

“I was practically choking on the smoke.”

“Ah..” I always forget my magic even _does_ that. No one else's does. Sometimes I wonder how I came out so fucked up. “Sor –“

“You should know by now you don't need to apologize.” Her smiles are always warm. “Wanna get food with me?”

“Yeah! Er, well. I was going to bring some to Baz, too. Cause... You know.”

Her eyes are twinkling with mischief. “Yeah Simon, trust me.” She gives a drawn out wink. “I _know_.”

She's obviously talking about something besides the vampirism, but I don't really want to press her. It's either going to go over my head completely or be something I don't want to hear. I just smile mildly back, and she seems to take the hint, if the rolling eyes were any indication. We start walking and I start talking, like the flow of idiotic words is somehow linked to my steps. “So, well... You know that thing. That I asked. Because you're ridiculously smart and better at research than –“

“Flattery will get you nowhere. I doubt you even need it for what you're asking, considering you just said you've asked it before.”

One of the things I love about Penny is that she just strikes through any awkwardness with a healthy serving of no-nonsense. It certainly saves us a lot of time. “I was just wondering if you found anything about the.. you know.” I lower my voice, even though there's no one near us. “About the vampire thing. And like. The um. Survivability. Of.”

Blessedly, she cuts me off. I know some people consider that rude, but it's always a blessing when Penny knows what I'm saying before I do. “I have some stuff; a lot of it needs to be translated, though. I should have a clear idea by tomorrow. Probably afternoon. Languages not derived from Latin are a _bitch_ for translator spells.”

“Thank you so much Penny, I don't know what I'd do without you.”

“Perish.” She winks and then seems to reconsider. “Or flunk.”

“Basically the same to you?” I joke while elbowing her.

“Something like that.” Her voice goes far away as we enter the cafeteria. I follow her gaze and see Agatha waiting at a table, she waves with a slender hand. I'm happy I told Baz I'd bring him food suddenly, it means I get to avoid the awkwardness of sitting with her.

We talk and joke while piling our plates. Mine is huge, of course – not only because I could eat this whole school if they'd let me, but because I don't actually know how much Baz needs to eat, considering I'd never seen him do it. I assume it's a lot – he's an athlete, after all – so I err on the side of caution.

Penny quirks an eyebrow at my impressive stack, once again reminding me I'm surrounded by people who can magically lift only one eyebrow. It might be actual magic – some spell I've never heard of and probably couldn't do.

“ _ **Woah, Nelly**_ _._ ” It's not a very powerful spell, but Penny uses it to it's full potential, and the food suddenly seems much less liable to falling in a pile on the floor.

“Thanks!” She beams. I grin. Penny is a really great friend.

“Anytime.” She waves me off. “You look like you're itching to get back to him. I'll eat with Agatha, so no worries?”

I don't even deny the whole itching to get back to him thing, because no matter how pissed I'd been, I can't stop thinking about Baz eating in front of me. It's stupid, I know, but he never eats in front of _anyone_. It's just... nice. I think I'm excited because if I need it, I'll have more blackmail later.

“Bye!” I jog out, Penny's spell keeping the food safely piled on my tray. I don't actually know Baz's taste; I've only ever seen him get coffee, but I didn't want to get him any for dinner. I know he has trouble sleeping sometimes, and that undoubtedly wouldn't help.

The door opens easily, like always. Baz is sitting on his bed, looking like someone shat in his cereal. It's effective, certainly. He has heavy lashes, and they shield his eyes in a way that's pouty but undeniably tragic. He should be the poster boy for vampires; he's pale, but the rich, dark undertones in his skin make him look like an oil painting instead of sick, and he's really got the brooding atmosphere down pat.

“I'm sorry.” Startled, I jump a little. Bless Penny for that charm.

We both gape at each other for a long second. He sounds – defeated. Different. I don't quite like it. I don't quite know what to do about it, so I just stare. He stares back.

It lasts far too long.

“Did you hear me? I said I was so-”

“Yeah, I heard you.” I don't know why I cut him off instead of hearing it again. “I just – I've never heard you say that. I just. Uh.” I fumble, then try for a good response. “It's fine. I'm over it. Er, you want to eat? I'm starved.”

His eyes are open wide – wide enough I can see the swirl of green-blue-grey that no one else's eyes could possibly match. It's nice to see him looking less-than-composed for once.

“Yeah.” He says faintly. “That would be.. nice.”

So I plop the tray down on the floor and sit next to it, digging in without a moments hesitation. I notice after a moment that he hasn't joined me, and when I look up he's staring at me like I've lost my mind.

“Ghuat?” I garble around a mouthful of scone. I swallow and try again. “What?”

“I just... You really expect me to eat on the floor?”

I glance down at my crossed legs, then the food. “Yes?” He doesn't move. “What, is it too common for your prissy sensibilities?”

That gets him to react, a little jerk and then a chuckle. It's different than the sneer I expected – I like it better. Much better.

“No, not at all.” He says as he slides to the floor next to me, all grace even with stupidly long limbs. I stop my assault on the food and instead watch as he daintily selects a bit of bread, dipping it in soup before finally taking a nibble off of it.

I've seen his fangs before, but those were an entirely different circumstance. Right now, while he seems content – or at least not shaking and thrashing like I was hurting him – and I'm not in equal throes of terror and wonder because he's _drinking_ _my fucking blood_ – I can actually properly marvel at them. They're certainly worth it. Little pearlescent points sticking daintily out of his mouth. He tugs at a sandwich with them, and it tears away easily.

His eyes meet mine and I glance away, blushing. Chuckling makes me turn back, a sulky, “What?” coming out before I can think better.

His fangs are still there, looking bloody elegant and fierce, when he drawls, “I've just never seen something distract you from food so completely.”

I gape at him, and then at the sandwich still clutched halfway to my mouth. My face burns. “If this was a scone things would've been different.” I mutter at the sandwich accusingly.

It doesn't seem to care, so I shove it in my mouth. That should show it.

When I look up, Baz is staring with an expression bordering on something distantly related to fond. I turn red at the sight of it – I didn't even know he could look like that.

I adamantly avoid his eyes for the rest of the meal. It's self-preservation, to a certain extent, though I don't know why it feels like eye contact is going to make me burst into flames.

“Thanks.” He mutters it like he can't quite believe he's doing it. I suppose I understand the sentiment. Then he's standing and striding across the room, leaving me feeling odd.

“Where are you going?” It comes out accusingly. I wince.

He shoots a cold look over his shoulder and I wince again. I stand up, suddenly uncomfortable on the floor. I guess he deems my question unworthy of an answer, because he's opening the door and stepping through it, which for some reason translates to me opening my stupid mouth. “Uh, if you are... y'know, going to the Catacombs. Well. Uh.” He's still as a photograph; all pale sloping lines and dark eyes. “I was just gonna say – that is, I wouldn't mind if you, say, dranksomeofmybloodagain.” _You even said we should do it again yourself, twat._

He parts pale lips. I hold my breath. “I don't think you would be willing to give all I need.”

I jump on the vague answer, slumping down onto my bed. I don't know why I don't want him going down there – okay, maybe I do. I'd have to follow him, because old habits die hard, and it's fucking dreary down there. “Like, physically? I'm fine with you having whatever – so long as you don't murder me, but I think we're past that. I'll just make more. Being alive privileges, and all that.”

“What if I need more than you can give?”

I shrug. “I mean, you can just, like, use rats for the rest. Or _**fill 'er up**_.”

“That's not what that spell is for.”

“Why not? It'd work.”

“How do you know? It could go horribly, horribly wrong. I could _make_ it go wrong – fill you up with so much blood you pop.”

I shift a little at the image, but make sure my eye contact is strong and sure when I meet his gaze. “You wouldn't.”

He shifts and hides his face. “You're right. I wouldn't.” I almost feel like I wasn't supposed to hear, with how soft he said it. Storm cloud eyes peek from behind his fingers and he looks soft and young – both things I don't think I've ever said about Baz before.

I smile at him and he doesn't quite smile back.

“Fine, then.” It's like he tries to sound put-upon but it catches somewhere in his sternum, leaving just uncertainty. He attempts to make up for it by striding over; long legs and purpose as back-up. It doesn't work. Him stopping abruptly beside my bed and swaying there like he was tipsy certainly doesn't help, either. I grab his hand and give a little tug; he almost collapses into it he falls onto my bed so fast and bonelessly. He looks lost, and wow: unsettling that cool composure is _definitely_ my new favorite pastime.

I smile and grab the knife out of my drawer.

“Wait!” I startle a bit; the knife plops into my lap. (Closed, thankfully.) “Sorry,” And there's that word again – have I ever heard him say sorry before today? “I just won't be able to think, once you...” He coughs a little. “Well, anyway. I just – I thought it was important: Why do you suddenly trust me so much?”

I cock my head a little. “ _I_ was never the one who wanted to fight.” He can't blush as fiercely as me, but now that I know to look for it, there's a dull smattering of pink on the tips of his ears. It's strangely endearing. “And, well...” I probably shouldn't say this next part, “I honestly have some pretty deep shit on you now, so I doubt you're going to cross me. Also I did some, uh, regrettable things to get that shit and I feel fucking bad, man.” There. Honesty. He can take it or leave it.

For a long, heart-shuddering moment, I think he will actually leave it. Leave me. Go skulk off to his stupid catacombs to eat stupid rats just because I was honest with him.

His face distorts into something entirely new. I couldn't place it for a lifetime supply of scones. He doesn't say anything for long minutes; the only sound is faint splashing from the moat and the wind whistling outside. Finally, he speaks: “I didn't expect anything less.” He's trying to twist his face into something scathing, I realize. His hearts not in it though – it ends up being a little self-deprecating smirk. His gaze is fixed on me, all lowered eyelids and murky depths. It's uncomfortable, being scrutinized like this by him; especially when we're both so close, knees almost touching on my bed.

Fuck, I have to stop thinking like that. He's about to drink my blood, I can't get all weird because we're _almost_ touching.

At least that gives me something to do. I pick up the knife again and hesitantly meet his eyes. “Ready?”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yo guys! Pleased as always if you've somehow found the patience to stick around <3  
> It came to my attention a lot of people post their tumblrs? So hey if you wanna scream with me about gay vampires and their winged boyfriends, my personal tumblr is [ Jixis writes ](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/jixiswrites) (aka don't follow me there unless you wanna see my personal moanings and musings about life/the universe/my inability to be a real human. My art tumblr, which is updated much less and is probably the better one to follow anyway (not that you have to or should follow either) is [ Jixis Arts (original, i know) ](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/jixisarts)


	7. Be your own North Star. Lead yourself to ruin.

**Simon**

 

The 'yes' is breathy and quick. There's really no doubts about how much he wants this when he sounds like _that_ , like this is better than scones – or whatever Baz's equivalent is. I'll never be so enamored with hemoglobin, but watching his face twist into delight when I make the first cut is it's own sort of pleasure.

There's a lot I could think about that. A lot I _should_ think about that, because when has watching Baz ever given me something close to pleasure? Everything has changed far too fast. I have no idea where we stand.

I've never been one to examine my feelings that closely, though. Why start now?

He's reaching for me. He has long, tapered fingers – elegant. I don't think he's fully in control as they wrap around my arm, which makes it all the more entrancing. The cut isn't wide or deep yet; I'd gotten distracted by his face, those eyes, the _fingers._ It was too much and not enough – there was a tight feeling in my chest like it would just burst open any second. Like my ribs were cracking under invisible weight, like all my breath had been sucked out by the gentlest of touches.

It's a weird feeling, to have someone suck at a cut. The pain is there, of course, but it's like an afterthought. Or, not exactly – it's like the tight grip of a squirming lover –

Which is really not what I should be thinking of when Baz is lapping so delicately at my arm, his stupid, pretty fangs brushing the skin but never going any farther. It's warm and wet and nice, and I must have something fucked up in me from all the foster homes because it feels like being _cared for._

It's just a favor between friends, but sometimes it feels like the lines of who's getting the favor were blurred.

After what feels like an eternity, I manage to speak. My voice is too low, too throaty, but Baz's pupils are so blown and his breath is so quick I'm sure he doesn't care. “I was gonna – gonna cut more. That's not enough – barely anything.”

And Baz, with his storm cloud eyes and impossibly soft looking lips, dips his head and murmurs against the cut: “I would take anything you give me.” My breath catches at the sincerity. This isn't the Baz I know – or maybe it is. Maybe he's always been this, and I've never noticed.

Of course, I stutter my next words. “And I – I want to give you more.” He inhales against my arm. The fangs brush just a little harder, and then I'm the one sucking in breath. “Let me.”

“Of course.” And his head is lifting, and I know it's necessary, but I don't want this to stop. My knuckles are white around the knife, a fact I don't realize until he gently pries them off. He hesitates, holding the handle and staring at my eyes. I should be scared. I should be _terrified_.

And then Baz talks and his voice is so low and sweet I forget all about 'shoulds'. “Could I, this time? I'll be careful.”

I close my eyes. “Yeah.” And because he's chased away all the things I _should_ be, all the things I _should_ do, I breathe: “I trust you.” I don't think it's anything but honesty.

And Baz must know, must understand somewhere in him, because he lowers his mouth and murmurs against my bloody skin, “You shouldn't.”

“I know.” He seems to accept that, pressing his lips harder against the cut, hard enough it sends a shock of pain down my arm. He makes up for it with a tender lick; then he's pressing the blade against my arm. It's gentle, too gentle. It takes him a while to up the pressure to something that actually works, breaking skin and letting the blood bubble across the slick surface. He's there in a second, like he couldn't stay away, like this was something he wanted – needed.

The pain is an afterthought – barely there, shrouded in cotton candy and eyes like ozone. His gentleness is a force, a natural disaster, I'm bowled over by it in a way I don't ever remember being.

I expected it to be messy. It's not. Every single drop of blood is lapped up, sucked from my flayed arm through the cage of his teeth.

It's agonizingly slow, even as I can see his lips getting pinker and pinker, some color rising in the too-sharp cheekbones, signs that it's working, that this could be an option. Signs that Baz wouldn't have to slink off to the sewers and eat rats, signs that I wouldn't be duty-bound to follow him.

Baz's bowed head is intoxicating. The idea that I'm actually doing something real to help someone is intoxicating. This was so much better than the back-and-forth pull of the mage, the burnt, broken remains left behind when I went off. This was _real_ help, this was someone I knew, someone I saw every day, being better off because of me.

This was something to believe in. Something to fight for.

 

Because this was Baz.

 

* * *

 

**Baz**

 

'Overwhelmed' is not a strong enough word. If there were once words that could be adequate, they've been lost in throes of blood. _Simon's_ blood.

I don't think there could be anything better than this. I've reached my pinnacle, obviously – it wasn't a place I thought I could get to, in the short time I have left. I never thought I'd have anything to look forward to but the final battle, my plans for one last kiss, the sweet black of death.

But Simon's blood is cinnamon and cherries, it's sunshine made thick, sea water sweetened. His blood is everything I've never experienced, every forgotten corner of the world I'll never see. I could live and die in this moment and be happier than I'd ever imagined.

And it's so filling – I'm already getting full, and I haven't even drained a rats worth. The nutritional value would make a Health Inspector drool. Or scream. I suppose this isn't quite sanitary.

Sanitation is actually the last thing on my mind as I drag my tongue up Snow's inner arm; it's more a loop of holyshitholyshitholyshit and complete sensory overload. I can't believe I'm doing this – I can't believe he's letting me do this. I can't believe he brought me food and gave me the knife and is looking at me with too-blue eyes under thick eyelashes – maybe I'm dreaming.

I'm going to be so pissed if I wake up.

The blood slows under my lips, and I pull away, doing my best to ignore the absolutely obscene noise as I do so. I stay close enough that after I murmur, “Are you okay?” I can punctuate it with a lick across the thickest part of the cut.

He hums happily at me. I melt, internally, and I hope the overwhelming rush of fondness and want doesn't show. “Need more?” He asks, all sleep-sweet.

I suck on his arm, careful to be gentle. The seep of blood is slowing, but I don't want to ask for more – a drop is more than I ever thought I'd have. Him giving me this freely – more than once, at that – is my worst (best) fantasies come to life. “This is more than enough.” I say. It's nowhere near a lie.

And then – then he reaches out with his other hand and tilts my chin up. My eyes find his automatically – I'm too surprised to do anything but that. His are hooded, and so much calmer than usual. Sedated is a good look on him. I hope he doesn't notice how I lean into his touch; he's so warm I can barely stand it.

“You don't look quite done.” My traitorous heart, pumping stolen blood – his stolen blood – gives a weak jerk at that. He knows what I look like when I'm done feeding – he's been paying more attention than I thought. I wrestle with the hope bubbling in my chest, struggle to push it back to the depths where it belongs. His hand leaves my face to ghost over the hand holding the knife – it's echoing his grip from earlier, white-knuckled and shaking. “Cut another.”

“Are you sure?”

He grins, a dopey smile that tugs one side way higher. “Of course. You'll patch me up after, right?”

“Of course.” I say. After a deep breath, I'm ready. I position the knife parallel to the other cut, and press as gently as possibly till my senses are overwhelmed by the liquid bubbling out. It's not even conscious, the way I duck my head and start lapping at it. A cat that got the cream wouldn't be a bad metaphor – I certainly feel satisfied, and the loopy grin I turn on him is more toothy than any normal human's. I can't even find it in me to be embarrassed, even when his eyes so obviously catch on my fangs. He looks intrigued, not disgusted, and in this moment I'd let him look his fill if it weren't for the rivulets of crimson that desperately need my attention.

I really am full by the time the new cut starts to slow it's bleeding.

I fish my wand from my pocket. Snow's leaning all his weight on the wall, slouched like his bones have liquefied in his body, and his eyes are still the same – sleepy, comfortable, _blue_. I blame that gaze for the moment of weakness in which I press my lips back to his arm and murmur, “ _ **Time heals all wounds.**_ ” against it.

And then I stay.

I don't want this moment to end. I don't want to go back to what we were before this. I don't want anything to come between us ever again, and if Snow let me, I'd magic us both far away where no one could ever find us.

I'm so lost I don't realize Snow's reaching for me until his fingers are already in my hair, carding through it reverently. _Reverently_. That wasn't ever an emotion I though Snow would turn on me – and for what? For drinking his blood? For healing him? I'm undeserving, on either count.

“I can hear you thinking.” His words are soft around the edges – almost fond. “Relax. You're fine. Everything's fine.”

I know there's no magic in his words, but fuck if it doesn't feel like it. I could resist, could fight, but that's all we ever do; in the end I just let his words wash over me and try to use them as a mantra. “Thank you.” I rasp. It's not enough, but I don't think any words could be. I still haven't lifted my head from his arm. I think eventually, he'll make me. As it is, the rushing of blood so close is a lullaby. I'm full. Truly, blessedly full, without the rancid taste of rats seeping into everything.

 

If I'm struck down for my sins right now, I'd die happy.

 

Simon falls asleep while I'm still curled on his bed. I wouldn't have noticed if his hand hadn't fallen from my hair, curling on top of the mattress right in front of my face. He's still half-slouched against the wall, and it feels more like overstepping when I lift him up and lay him down than everything else this evening.

He looks peaceful in sleep in a way I don't think can be accomplished in the waking world. At least, not for him. Not for us.

I curl up away from him in my own bed. Normally, it takes ages for me to sleep, but he'd passed out before we could argue about the window, so it was blessedly closed.

I drift off into a sleep calmer than I deserve.

 

* * *

 

It feels like something should've changed – and maybe it has. But I wake up to the sounds of the shower and bright light – and the window open, of course. It's just like any other morning.

Snow exits the bathroom, and I look just long enough to see his gaze travel over me before the droplets trailing down his neck force my eyes away. Nothing good comes from staring at what you can't have. Nothing good comes from the little voice saying 'but maybe you _could_ have him.'

I know where I stand, and it was somewhere between enemy and charity case.

He doesn't speak to me as he leaves, which is just as well. It's exactly what usually happens, and if I have to deal with any awkward overtures of friendship I might collapse on the spot.

 

* * *

 

**Simon**

 

I practically skip to lunch. I would say I don't know why I'm in such a good mood, but it would be a bald-faced lie, so I just bask in the pleasant morning.

It gets even more pleasant when Penelope greets me in the dining commons, a scone already in hand that she passes over to me. And then, miracle of miracles, the good morning gets even better.   
  
“So,” Penelope starts. “Your creepy and unnecessary way of helping Baz can now get even more creepy and unnecessary – to turn you, he'd need to get a decent amount of his blood in you while biting. It was actually very interesting, when vampires have the intention of turning someone, they'll bite their own tongue and basically spit blood in the wound.”

“Are you sure you didn't mean 'unsanitary'?”

“That too.” She adopts the faraway gaze she gets sometimes, “I wonder if vampires tend to go for humans with compatible blood types, or if they have a way to get around the antibodies. Then again, it's not much blood and it's not there to save a life, so...” She trails off, but the thoughtful look doesn't leave and I know she's going to research this within an inch of its life.

I ask her to tell me whatever she finds, and her surprised face slips into a knowing one all too quickly. “Do you even know your blood type?”

I shrug. It probably wouldn't be too hard to find out. I'm sure there's a spell for that.

Penny must be thinking the same thing, because she glares with enough force to make me change my mind, even before she says, “No blood-related magic.”

I hold up my hands in surrender. If Penny says it, it's probably a good idea.

“Oh! Also,” She starts as we walk. “I know you've basically thrown yourself to his mercies at this point,” She waves off my protest, “But do be careful with this? A lot of the reports glossed over this part, but apparently some vampires have a sort of sedative in their saliva, for easier... feeding?” Aaand there's the faraway look again, though now I'm sure it means she'll be looking up the politically correct terms to use with vampirism.

Another thing I'll have to ask her about then.

Or maybe I could ask Baz.

 

* * *

 

**Baz**

 

The day is as droll as always. I drink my tea and don't look at Snow during meals. I don't know what I'd do if he was looking back. I don't know what I'd do if he wasn't.

I pay attention in class, even though I don't want to. I have a sickening feeling the alternative is drawing hearts across all my papers, or at least something scarily similar. Staring out the window and sighing, maybe. I would hope I wouldn't stoop to literal heart doodles, but I still scan all the 'i's I wrote, just to make sure there's no suspiciously shaped dots.

There's none that could be readily linked to the idea of a heart – I still blot some edges wider. It never hurts to be careful.

And it would _really_ hurt if Snow figured out how I felt about him.

So I blot my 'i's into perfect circles and never let my eyes stray to his table. I don't let myself think about what happened – I don't think about his blood, or his sleep-sweet smile, or how gentle his hand had been on my cheek. I think about school and that's all.

That's _all_.

Until I go back to the room that night and he's waiting, a smile on his face that's just this side of manic. It was like I'd never even spent the day resolutely not thinking about him – it was like I never should've even tried. How can your thoughts be filled with spells and lore when Snow can smile brighter than the sun, can light a room with more than just his magic, can melt you with just one glance.

He speaks, and everything else falls away. “I have great news.”

 

(It was not, in fact, great news.)

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Man, guys. Girls. Non-binary pals. I've really had a bad time of it lately. If you're feeling up to it, please leave some love in the comments. Or constructive criticism! I dig that too


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